


Airworks

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [17]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, the invisibility watch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:59:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4302228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She could be anywhere, it feels like she’s everywhere. He could cheat and pinpoint her precise location, of course, but where would the fun be in that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Airworks

**Author's Note:**

> for Sparksearcher, who prompted: Twelve/Clara and putting that invisibility watch to good use in the bedroom/console room/wherever they like to get it on.

He sits primly on his wing-backed armchair, waiting. She’s here somewhere. He can feel her presence, the thorny, blood-hot rush of her, taking up so much more space than is fair for someone of her stature.

Clara Oswald, the tangled knot in the web of time. In _him._ She still doesn’t really understand when he says she will always, always look the same to him. She’s defined as much by her face as he is by his.

She could be anywhere, it feels like she’s everywhere. He could cheat and pinpoint her precise location, of course, but where would the fun be in that?

“I love this chair,” she whispers, inches away from his ear. He hadn’t heard her come up. She could be stealthy, for someone who walks around on stilts.

“It makes me think of the filthiest things,” she continues. The sound of a fingernail being scratched slowly along the leather armrest. “Not sure why. Something about stately, well-kept antiques just makes me want to ruin them.”

He swallows hard, aware of how much of a tell that is. His jaw clenching, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Any particular thought you’d like to share?” His voice scraped up from somewhere deep inside him, rough and halting.

She laughs. He can feel it, her breath hot on his neck, and then she’s gone: walking deliberately away, heels snapping onto the metal grate. The noise sends a jolt straight to his groin. He fidgets, but doesn’t move. He won’t move until she lets him.

“Oh, the usual. I’ve thought about riding you on it, kneeling down in front of it, between your legs. Thought about bending you over the back of it, or _you_ kneeling in front of it. Any of those pushing a button?”

He nods his assent, doesn’t trust his voice. Another tell, he knows. Although at this point the tent in his trousers removes the need to look for subtle cues. He doesn’t need to pretend for her but she enjoys it, for whatever reason, enjoys it when he holds himself back. Maybe she likes the moment when she finally makes him crack.

Heels coming closer, the noise ringing out. She isn’t touching him, hasn’t touched him at all so far, but she’s close, she’s palpable, she’s the hairs on his neck standing on end. He swallows again and stares rigidly ahead.

She lets him squirm for a bit, then brushes a finger over his lips softly, quickly. He can’t help but chase after it, mouth open, but she’s gone. She tuts, teacher-voice. He feels his hair being ruffled.

“Now now,” she says. “I didn’t say you could do that.”

“What _can_ I do?” he asks plaintively, and his voice is just as awful as he’d thought it’d be, too high-pitched and too desperate.

There’s a pause. A change in the air around him, in the presence that she is. “Unbuckle your belt.”

He complies, slowly. He knows she likes drawing things out. The tilt of his hips, the whisper of leather sliding through belt-loops. His hands shaking on the clasp and he knows she likes that too. He looks up at the place where she might be and raises an eyebrow: _now what?_

She takes a deep breath. The presence that she is pulsing, trembling. “Unbutton your trousers. Take yourself out. I want to see you.”

So he does, a little faster. His self-control crumbling as he wraps his hand around his cock just enough, _just_ enough, to expose himself to her. She hadn’t told him he could keep touching himself, after all. What was the game, Simon Says? Clara Says. Maybe best to not think about children’s games at a time like this. His cock hard and aching against his belly, he forces his hands back down to his sides.

She waits. He sweats. A clock, somewhere, is ticking.

Finally, there’s the unmistakeable sound of her skirt hitting the floor, and she says: “I want you to touch yourself. For me, the way I tell you to.”

She micromanages at first, calling pace and location, from tip to shaft to balls, and the sensitive skin behind them, and then behind that. Fast and slow and away altogether - his hand held out somewhat melodramatically, palm sticky with pre-cum. And then she knows, somehow, the way she always knows, she knows he’s on the verge, and at last she touches him, hand clamped hard on his shoulder, and there’s an undeniably needy edge in her voice as she implores him, half-commands him, to come for her.

Self-control thrown entirely aside now, he comes hard and messy. Slumping down on his stately antique armchair, softening cock still in hand, feeling debauched and enveloped by her. Even if her grip on his shoulder lightens and then vanishes completely. He’ll always feel her.

Except that, too, is soon lost. The Gordian knot of her retreating. He senses more than hears the TARDIS door closing behind her. He knows the drill. What she is when he can’t see her is different from what she is when he can. She controls herself as much as she does him - there’s an odd vulnerability here, a part of her she’s still not comfortable with sharing. One day, one day. They’ve got literally all the time in the universe, after all.

Gradually, he unsticks himself from the chair. Stretches out the kinks in his neck, wincing a little. The invisibility watch could stay for now but maybe they’d move it to the bed, next time.


End file.
